


A Stark Return

by Notsyrups



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-11 10:20:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19926484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notsyrups/pseuds/Notsyrups
Summary: Set 20 years post-finale, Queen in the North Sansa Stark is doing just fine - she's ruling the North with a gentle and firm fist, trade is regular with the other kingdoms, and she has two lovely children.But what happens when her cousin, the King-Beyond-The-Wall, returns after nigh on 12 years with no visits, and unannounced? Lyarra and Robb set out to figure out exactly why their mother seems to shake when he's around.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I keep starting series with Jonsa and then abandoning them... well my others are on hiatus but i swear this one is gonna be finished if its the last thing I do. I keep thinking about the plot of this and although I'm not the BEST writer, this is about as accurate to what I imagine happening as I can get it. Expect 3-5 parts :)

“Good morning, Lady Stark,” a gentleman bows deep.

“Lady Stark,” another bows his head.

The thick dark wool of her dress is course in her hands, as she lifts the hem high enough to walk briskly through the hall. She was late – and a Lady was never late. She had awoken past the ninth candlemark, oversleeping was a bane of hers. She had asked servants to not wake her as of late – she wanted to school herself into a proper schedule… unfortunately that meant she overslept quite a bit until then.

She huffs through the halls of Winterfell, turning corners. She curses her chamber for being so far from her destination. Another few courtiers offer her the bureaucratic pleasantries she’s gotten used to over the past years, and she quickly sent recognition their way. _Blast, I’ll surely get grief for this._

She turns at the archway to the Great Hall. Hands smoothing down the fabric of her dress. She takes a deep breath and moves her braid over her right shoulder. She slides into the room, hiding in the corner next to the archway, looking for an opening.

“My Queen, we are in need of your council,” an Umber man croons. The flame of red that sits at the high table takes a deep intake of breath.

“Yes – well, carry on.” Long fingernails scrape against the wood of the chair softly, seen only from the sides of the table where guards and the silent watcher at the wall.

The young Lord Stark sits beside the Queen in the North, his own waved mop of red curls tucked neatly behind his ears, a smaller crown than the Queen’s sits atop his head, a copper design. His sharp grey eyes dart to where the Lady stands in the archway. He tuts at her, and while the Queen busies herself with the qualms of the day, he scans the room. He lowers a hand below the table and within eyeshot waves her over.

She takes this effort to slide in and sit beside her brother – “thanks,” she whispers.

“Lyarra you’ll be the death of us all,” he hisses, but the smile on his face betrays him, and Lyarra cannot help but mirror a grin.

Her Lady mother looks over at her children, “now that the young Lady has deigned to join us,” she smiles at her court who erupts with short laughter, “we may continue.” She motions for Lord Umber to start again.

“Your Grace,” he nods, “some Wildlin’ scavengers have been raiding our land – takin’ our goats ye see?” Lyarra notices the small twitch on her mother’s lips at the outdated term. “We want justice,” he raises his arms up, turning around to the rest of the court. Robb looks around the room and Lyarra notices that the bawdier the room gets, the harder Robb squeezes the armrest on his chair.

The Queen raises a solitary hand, and the room hushes at once. Lyarra was always stunned at the command her mother exudes, and how willingly their men follow her.

“I may remind you all that the _Free Folk_ ,” she stresses, “are just as honorable as you are, My Lords.” She scolds them like children, “besides – you know I called this session today as to teach my children how this is done. I will not have this course taken astray by foolish prejudice that has been long snuffed out by our last King.” The room stills at the mention of the last King in the North. No one talks about him much these days, and even Lyarra has only met him but once, years ago.

“Robb,” the cold cut of her voice slices through the tension, “What do you do,” it is less a question than a statement, to which the young Lord straightens his back.

“How many of your goats were taken, My Lord?”

“4 out of our twelve, Your Grace.”

Robb chews on his lip, “and the income lost?”

“About two silver apiece,” the Lord says, rocking on his heels.

Robb leans to his mother, “can we spare any coin until the goats breed?”

The Queen smiles warmly, “good thinking.” She takes a breath, “Lyarra what would you do?”

“I’d say to search for the offenders, but as such that the Free Folk – even defectors are not our subjects, that we should write to the Lord Commander and King-Beyond-The-Wall, and ask for cooperation and to let us help in the search with them, and then in the meanwhile until the brigands found… to reduce... the tax… in that area, maybe?” The Queen nods slowly, and her eyes drift to the other side of the room, weighing her options.

“My Lord Umber, I shall take some of both council of my children. We will write to The King Crow and ask for aid and will provide you a stipend of 6 silver a quarter until the unrest is finished. Your goats should be breeding this next moon, and once you start earning you may repay the Crown at eight silver a year until repaid.”

The lord nods and bows gratefully, leaving the main floor to sit aside his kin at the table.

“Now – who is next?” Her pointed nose lifts in the air, and the court resumes with the next grievance.

The day goes on, and as the sun sets and the glint of the candlelight off the melted snow on the window sills, the lessons Sansa teaches to her children become more in depth, more on the side of morally grey, and how to use that as a ruler since all actions have consequences.

Lyarra was a girl but of five-and-ten, and her brother of seven-and-ten, but the lessons their mother had taught them started early. Both knew of stitching, both of swordplay. _“In this world, Ladies are called to war and men should know how to stitch a wound and well as cloth themselves. Be self-sufficient, the both of you.”_

“Alright, my Lords, but I do believe it is time for us to close court here today, and,” she says lifting a goblet, “bring out the ale!” Servants bring out the supper, and the men bang on the tables, roaring. The Northmen are a rowdy bunch, and Lyarra would have it no other way.

\---

The night went on, and the siblings caught themselves in conversation.

“I’ll kick your arse at archery again, Ly,” Robb goaded. Their mother gave him a swift smack in the elbow from where she was turned away for the curse.

“You couldn’t kick a cripple two feet, Robbo,” she chimed back. A harsh _Lyarra_ was heard from her mother and the two laughed and began talking in hushed tones.

“I think you did real well today,” Robb tells her, smacking a hand on her shoulder, “y’know for coming in so damned late.”

She pushes his hand off her shoulder and scoffs, “oh shut up.” She fixes herself in her seat, eyeing her mother as she is swept into conversation.

“Do you think King Crow would help us?” Lyarra asked, picking up her goblet.

“I would assume so, he is our mother’s cousin, there’s no reason not to help us is there?”

She sipped on her water, as her mother disapproved of ale and wine for the rulers when not at celebrations. Something about it inhibiting decision making. Her mother was in conversation with their Hand, Meera Reed. The two of them had been thick as thieves for as long as Lyarra could remember. Her mother told her once that Meera and she shared a loss together, her uncle Bran who served as the King in the South. The Queen had told her that her uncle never came back the same, and with all the loss in their lives, they counted Bran among them. Meera served as a great amount of support for her mother, and Lyarra admired her for that.

Lyarra pulled at the loose ends of her long, dark braid. She wasn’t kissed by fire like her mother and brother, but she had the Stark look through and through.

The large doors of the great hall burst open, clanging against the walls they lay flush against. The hall was encapsulated in silence in that moment, the sound of a few swords clinking out from their sheaths echoed against the empty air. Lyarra and Robb turned their attention to the open doors, the icy wind rushing their way.

“Sansa,” a low voice rumbles from the entrance. There stands a man, Robb’s size, with a head full of long midnight curls, and a thick course beard to accompany. He wears a cloak of raven, with the finer details of his attire in a dark brown fur. The scars around his eyes are tell tale of the battles he’s fought.

The sound of a solitary chair scuffing resounds, and Lyarra turns to see her mother stood up, her mouth agape and her eyes wide. “Jon?” the voice she heard as not that of her mother, but of a little girl’s plea from her mother’s mouth. Her eyes flicker between the pair, and her brother quickly stands.

“Clear the room.” He commands, and _he_ sounds like their mother, but Lyarra is not comforted.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is back, Robb is grouchy, and Lyarra and Sansa are just here for the ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support on the first chapter! Next chapter is going to be mostly Jon and Sansa catching up!

“I said _clear the room_.” Secondary commands make for hasty exits – the Northmen scatter, heads turned back to their visitor. Robb’s eyes never stray from the man in black, grey eyes catching amber in the light. Lyarra noticed the way her mother slowly walks to the man named Jon. Is this the same man her mother told her stories of? His dark hair was long and unkempt, a few streaks of grey starting at the hairline, adorning him a crown of ice. His beard matched his hair, silver flakes throughout. His eyes looked tired but shone with a sense of recognition when looking at Robb and herself.

Jon’s cloak was thick, heavy on his shoulders. A gloved hand comes out from the cloak, and he goes into a deep bow. “Your Grace,” he starts, but before he could say any more, Sansa grips his shoulders and lets out a laugh.

“Sansa,” she says, “always Sansa.” He looks up at her, and the two embrace. His arms come around her with a dulled thump, and he lifts her onto her toes briefly. Sansa lets out a small laugh and snuggles her nose into his neck. Lyarra can tell how much they must have missed each other.

Lyarra eyes her brother, whose eyes are firmly locked on their mother’s back. She places a hand on his sleeve, and he turns his head to her slightly, his eyes not following. “Let’s introduce ourselves, brother.” He nods slowly and clears his throat loudly.

Sansa and Jon part, and Sansa turns to face her children, leaving a hand on Jon’s right bicep as she steps to his right, standing astride him. “Jon, I believe you met my children before but…” she gestures towards Robb. “This is my son Robb, and my daughter Lyarra.”

Jon lets out what is between a laugh and a sigh, “Wow, they have sure gotten older since I was here last… how old is Robb now? Six-and-ten?”

“Seven-and-ten, actually.” Robb straightens up his spine, and Lyarra feels the chill. He had the old winter in his bones, that’s for sure. Robb never put on airs, and he was usually always the one who wanted to help everyone. However, whenever their mother needed a break from ruling, it was always Robb she turned to first. He was always the one that could handle these situations with the grace their mother would be proud of.

Jon nods quickly, biting his lip. “Of course,” his grey eyes – that were so familiar – dart to Lyarra.

“I-I’m five-and-ten!” she blurts out, and Robb for the first time since Jon came in turns his attention to her.

“What? I am,” she huffs at her brother. He looks at her incredulously, as if she had never heard of decorum before. Something about how stiff the air got with Jon and Robb made her want to break it apart. She looked at her mother, who was looking at Jon’s face. She looked at him like she was drowning, and he was the last bit of light before the dark.

Jon casts a glance at Sansa, who nods at his approach. Jon makes his way up to the high table and bows before Lyarra. “It is an honor to see you again, Princess.” His smile reaches his eyes in a way Lyarra hadn’t seen in any man near her before. “The last time I saw you…” he starts, taking off his gloves, “you were still a babe.” He looks back at Sansa who nods.

Sansa picks up her skirts to walk forward, “she was around three if I remember correctly. You’ve been gone a long while, Jon.” She turns and sits down on the edge of the table, Lyarra looks at her brother, inclining her head at their mother’s lack of professionalism. “Well, it’s just as well. There’s something we wanted to discuss with you anyway.”

Jon nods, “Yes, in truth a reason why I came here was to discuss the raids.” Jon offers a hand in the direction of the side of the room, allowing Sansa to take the initiative to go first.

“Robb, fetch some wood for the fire, Lyarra, please accompany your brother. Meet us in my solar as soon as you can.” She walks out of the room and Jon soon follows, his cape dancing over the floor gracefully.

Robb growls lowly, “why is he even HERE,” he storms off to the stalls in the marketplace of Winterfell, not bothering to wait for Lyarra.

“Hey-!” She calls after him.

She runs after him, he being over a head taller than her meant every step he took was two or three for her. “What is up with you, Robb?”

“You wouldn’t remember, but mother cried over him a LOT after he left the last time. Whoever he is to her, he is no good for us, Ly.” He tosses some coin at the vendor and grabs an armful of wood. “For a good few years mother denied suitor after suitor, remember?”

Lyarra did remember, one of her first memories was sitting on her mother’s lap, chewing on a damp cloth while her mother gracefully turned away a Hornwood man. She knows now that the man wanted to marry her mother, but she never understood why. “Well, that doesn’t mean you can be so callous to Jon,” Lyarra tells him, throwing her hands up.

“It means, that mother never married because of that man.” He rolls his eyes at her, “think about it – crying for long periods of time after a man leaves, refusing all other hopes at happiness?”

Lyarra thought on it. She had vague memories of a dark-haired man standing over her crib, all she could remember was curls tickling her nose as her mother sang softly in the background. Her mother had long since banned any thought of marriage from her mind, but was it because her heart had belonged to this Jon? Cousin-love wasn’t unheard of… she would have to get to the bottom of this immediately.


End file.
